One of Their Own
by Pompey
Summary: Examining the relationship betwen Dr. Watson and the Yard after a case hits particularly close to home. Part of the 221B challenge. Complete.
1. The Attack

From the way they treated him, you'd have thought the man he'd attacked was a Yarder. The police had ways of handling different kinds of criminals. Those who attacked the police were treated worse than scum. _That_ he understood -- the force took care of their own. But he _hadn't_ attacked a peeler – just a nosy doctor who was asking too many questions.

He sulked in his cell as the days went by, shreds of news drifting to his ears as they circled the Yard.

"_Barely alive when they found him."_

"_Never saw worse what weren't dead, Bradstreet says."_

"_The surgeons thought he'd die on the table."_

"_Pulled through, thank God, but still touch and go."_

"_Hasn't woken up yet, I heard."_

"_Got the heart of a lion, that one. That's why he's hung on long as he has."_

"_Nah, he's too stubborn to quit this world."_

"_Well, whatever the reason he'll be all right, just you wait."_

Inspector Bradstreet sneered at the prisoner. "Just thought you should know the man you attacked is alive and more than willing to testify against you. Our hangmen do a better job of killing a man than you."

"Blood hell!" the prisoner exploded. "What's so special about him? He's just a doctor, not one of yours!"

"Dr. Watson _is_ one of ours," growled Bradstreet.


	2. The Man Himself

It was odd, Lestrade reflected. When had Dr. Watson gained the same celebrated status at the Yard that Holmes had?

Now Holmes's rise was easy to trace, from the grudging acceptance to unwilling respect to unabashed admiration to something very close to camaraderie. But Dr. Watson?

At first his tales of Holmes's adventures irked, even angered. Some bits were sources of amusement and occasionally derision. The first time he appeared at the Yard in Holmes's wake he was gawked at more than any zoo captive. Yet he had carried it off with aplomb.

And the longer Watson interacted with them – writing up his police statements himself, aiding in the occasional autopsy, performing more than one patch-up job when the need arose – the harder it was for the Yarders to equate the nauseatingly-fawning narrator of the _Strand_ with the man laughing with them over the idiocy of a particular cut-purse.

It helped that Watson himself was always a true gentleman and a decent fellow all the way around. Both he and Holmes understood the danger inherent in police work, the grueling hours and the lack of glory. But where Holmes was a genius, detached and unreachable, Watson was . . . well, one of their own.

A man was worth knowing, if he could room with Sherlock Holmes without landing in Bedlam.


	3. Lestrade

Lestrade took in Watson's appearance. He had only heard about the beating the doctor took while investigating for Holmes and was beyond glad to see him up and about after a month of healing. He passed Watson a pen to sign his affidavit and noted the doctor's right hand was still swollen and stiff. That must have been the cruelest blow of all, in more ways than one. Both surgeons and writers made their livings from knowledge and dexterity, and one without the other was of little use to either profession.

"Your verdict, Inspector?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Watson smiled. "Your men are subtle but I've felt their eyes on me since the moment I set foot on the premises. I must say, I have never seen so many solicitous expressions outside of a funeral. And you are no exception."

Lestrade shrugged. "It is always like that when one of ours falls in the line of duty. You only notice it now because you are on the receiving end."

"I've been injured during investigations before without such fuss."

"Not this badly," Lestrade growled. The reports about Watson's condition after the attack had been disheartening at best.

"Besides," Watson protested, "I'm hardly 'one of yours.' I've always been . . . well, an outsider."

"Not anymore you're not," Lestrade said bluntly.


	4. Gregson

Gregson stopped by Lestrade's office to drop off a file, passing Watson along the way. Rather than leave, however, Gregson leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

"Is Watson back?"

"He walked right past you, Tobias."

"No," Gregson insisted, "I mean, _is -- he -- back_?"

Their eyes met. Gregson meant more than Watson's physical presence at the Yard. He had interacted with Bradstreet more than Lestrade; he knew how bad it had been for the doctor. Mortality was a terrible thing to confront head-on. It was the sort of thing that could cause youngsters, and even some seasoned veterans, to have second thoughts about this line of work. If the first culling didn't stop you there was always another one on the way; you just never knew when.

Watson was a fighter but every man has his limits. Sometimes it got to the point when you simply had to cry "uncle." The game stopped being worth the candle.

Gregson would not have condemned Watson if this attack was to be that turning point for him. It was his right to choose. It was the right they all shared. But he would be sorry, damned sorry, to see the doctor go.

Lestrade understood and considered the question. His next words made Gregson nod approvingly.

"Yes. He's back."


	5. MacDonald

Inspector Alec MacDonald looked up as Watson stopped a few feet away to speak to Bradstreet. His superiors were already breathing down his neck to get his report on the forgery case finished but the inspector paused his work anyway.

So the doctor was up and about again, eh? Good.

Still, MacDonald had expected nothing else. The others may have worried but he was thoroughly confident Watson would pull through. Aye, any man with that much Scotch in his blood could do no less. Of course, the doctor wasn't a Scottish citizen but Mac was magnanimous enough not to hold that against him. It was hardly Watson's fault that he had been born on the wrong side of Hadrian's Wall.

Besides, his character was enough to make up for it. Mac had recognized it the first time he clapped eyes on the doctor. It wasn't just any man that could face down that flinty glare of Mr. Holmes's without turning a hair. Then to gently chastise Mr. Holmes for his lack of manners towards guests, while still under that glare! He was a credit to Scotland herself – stout-hearted, strong, noble, and obstinate as a mule.

It was for that reason Mac had never questioned Watson's involvement with matters of crime. He knew it took good men to straighten out bad business.


	6. Bradstreet

Inspector Bradstreet was relieved beyond words to see Watson mobile and conscious; the last time he had seen the doctor, there had been some doubts as to whether or not he was still alive.

It was sheer dumb luck that Bradstreet had been passing by that alleyway from the office, that he had even seen him lying in the shadows. Those closeness of what-could've-been still made him sick. He may not interact with Holmes and Watson on as regular a basis as Lestrade or Gregson but he had worked with them often enough to come to hold both of them in some regard.

Watson may not be officially one of theirs but it had been a personal pleasure to track down the scum who had attacked him. It had been even more of a pleasure bringing him in and near euphoria to connect Waton's attack with a couple other unsolved deaths by beating. The man would swing, if he had anything to say about it.

Watson had a strange expression when he looked at Bradstreet. "I was told you . . . were the one to find me. Afterwards."

"Yes." The inspector waited for the point.

Watson hesitated. "Thank you."

Bradstreet waved it off self-consciously. "Mr. Holmes would've had my hide if I had let you stop breathing."


	7. Bradstreet, II

After the thanks, it did not take Watson long to come to the point. Beating around the bush wasn't in his nature. "Might I impose on your for a favor?"

"Certainly," Bradstreet said without hesitation.

"I'd like to see him."

It took Bradstreet a moment to realize who "he" was. He sent Watson a sharp glance but the doctor looked his usual -- calm and reasonable but with an underlying streak of steely determination. _What are you about, Doctor?_

"Prisoners are allowed visitors," Watson pointed out when the inspector didn't answer right away.

"Yes, but what you're asking . . . is it wise?"

"We're at Scotland Yard, he's behind bars, Inspector Lestrade will be distracting Holmes for the next fifteen minutes, and I give you my word that I have no plans to accost him."

"Fifteen minutes, you said?" Not that Bradstreet was afraid of Holmes but he'd just as soon avoid a tongue-lashing. It was undignified, at best.

"I asked Lestrade to ask Holmes about the Pearson case," Watson replied with a faint smirk. He paused. "I would like to see him myself, face to face," he added in a low, flat voice.

_Or man to man, on a level footing_, Bradstreet finished mentally, nodding. Whatever the risks involved, it was worth the healing benefits.


	8. Man to Man

"I'm not allowed to leave you alone," Bradstreet apologized, unlocking the door. He didn't know what exactly Watson had to say but he sensed it shouldn't have an audience.

"It's quite all right," was the sincere reply. Watson paused before entering. "He will hang?" The tone was low again, unreadable.

"With Mr. Holmes's evidence? How could he not?"

Watson nodded, entered, and leaned against the closest wall with arms folded, apparently at ease. The prisoner watched him suspicously.

For almost a minute neither man spoke. Finally the prisoner broke the silence. "Who are you?"

"We crossed paths four weeks ago," Watson replied evenly.

"You're _that_ doctor?" The man in the cell looked him up and down. "Blimey, I must've been off me game if you're up walkin'."

"I've had worse."

The prisoner glowered. "I should've cut your bloomin' throat and saved me a mess o' trouble. Why'd you have to go and live, eh? "

Anger glinted in Watson's eyes. "Do you really think you would not have been caught? After three murders?"

" 'snot my fault if they died afterwards," he sneered.

Watson stiffened and Bradstreet braced for the worst. Then the doctor relaxed again. "Do you know what happens to a man when he's hung?" he cheerfully began.


	9. Tit for Tat

". . . And that's when he went step by detailed step through everything that happens to a man's body once the trapdoor drops from under his feet."

"He did not!" exclaimed Gregson, half delighted and half appalled.

"Oh, he did," Bradstreet assured him. "From broken neck and asphixiation to losing one's bowels."

There was a pause.

"Didn't think the doctor had such a malicious streak in him," MacDonald mused aloud.

Bradstreet shrugged. "I don't think he would have done it, if that blighter hadn't shown such a disregard for human life. Tit for tat, as it were." He chuckled slightly. "You should've that fellow's face when Watson finished."

There were schuedenfreude-esque chuckles all around as they imagined the "punisher" -- responsible for three deaths by beating and countless other attacks -- contemplating the manner of his own death. He had taken pride in his "work"; he faced his own death with less aplomb.

Bradstreet joined in, though he kept one detail private. Watson had found a savage satisfaction in relating the information and yet there had been pity too. He knew how it felt to be trapped by circumstances and could find a little sympathy even for the villain who attacked him. And that, Bradstreet reflected, was the line that forever separated good men from brutes.


End file.
